Diary Of A Muggle
by OlliOlli
Summary: The rise of the Dark Lord plunges the wizarding world into chaos, and it seeps into the Muggle world. Two Muggles, once soldiers, are pulled into another war to save London, their friends, and themselves. Set during the events of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. M for language, lewd humor, and people getting shot.
1. Chapter 1

**July 27, 1997**

Had my first holdup today. Man, a full year of workin' this newsstand and no one ever had the balls to try to hold me up until today. It was a kid, well, a teenager technically, but still too young to have to worry about money, 'specially from the look of his clothes. Those jeans looked brand new, though he needed a few years of growing and drinking to actually fit in them.

The gun was new too. It was one of those cheap things you'd buy from a thug on the street. Despite the no handgun rule, there are two types of people you can't force it on: criminals, and armed servicemen. He may have been the former, but unluckily for him, I was the latter.

"Gimme the cashbox," he said in a cockney accent.

"It's behind the Mirror," I replied as calmly as I could.

He bent down to check behind the Mirror display while I drew my own Colt Revolver and aimed it right at his head.

"It's not back 'ere, ye lyin' ol—" He looked up and stared down the barrel.

"Get the fuck out of here," I said.

He shot to his feet and ran off down the street and into an alley.

I sighed and holstered my gun. I hoped it'd be more exciting. You can't really help stupid teenagers. It's that phase where they're tryin' to be men, but the little boys in them come out when you're in over your head. I remember that feeling. Even after you're grown up, sometimes that scared boy you used to be comes back. The good part about it is that that's the part that gets you to run. You usually survive better that way.

Six o' clock finally came pretty much with no more excitement. I hobbled out of my stand, closed up everything, and limped down the six blocks to my apartment, or flat as they call it here. Maybe it's because the floors are flat or something. I dunno. I don't get these Brits. I don't think I ever will.

I moved to merry ol' London a little over a year ago. After dealing with a few family problems, I felt like I needed a change of scenery, and as if the Lord gave one himself, my buddy Cyrus from the Gulf called up and asked for help. Well, he didn't ask for help, but he sounded like he needed it. His sister died when a bridge over the Thames just collapsed with everyone on it. He was close to his sister, so I came by to help with the funeral arrangements. I stayed at his place to help him cope, and I ended up not leaving. I remember the funeral. There were at least five more in the same graveyard. I'm no engineer, but it seems strange that a bridge that huge and that strong could just collapse. I try not to talk about it around Cyrus, though. There are some things you just don't talk about.

Anyway, I sat around watching the news for a bit. There seem to be more murders and kidnappings than usual, but you'd expect it from a big city like this. Hell, it's a miracle anyone survives this long here from the traffic laws alone. Still, I just have a bad feeling about this.

Cyrus came in at about seven. "How's life, Your Highness?" He's called me that since we ended up in the same hospital. He got jealous of all the attention I got since my leg was almost shot off. That, and my last name is Prince.

I sighed. "All right, I guess. You?"

He walked into the living room. "No nickname? What happened?" I like to call him "Butterfinger" whenever I'm in a good mood. He got that since he lost his pinky in the same battle. He pushed some rookie out of the way and got his finger blown off. At least he doesn't have a limp.

I told him about the holdup. He probably would've laughed if the mood were better.

"So? Some idiot kid just got in over his head? What's the problem?"

"I dunno." I thought for a bit. "D'you ever get the feeling that the world's goin' to hell?"

"All the time. We're getting old. It's normal."

"I know that, but this feels like… well, we actually are goin' to hell."

He laughed. "I thought you quit church."

"Maybe not like that, but… you know what I mean, right?"

His lips tightened. "I think you're watching too many news programs." He got up and went to the kitchen.

I shrugged and turned back to the TV. I didn't really expect much from him.

Cyrus came back in with a beer. "Whenever I see the news lately, I think of Alicia," he said. "For some reason, I think there's some sort of connection, but it makes no sense whenever I try to figure out what it is." He shrugged. "I guess it's part of grief, right?"

I looked at him. This was one of those times where he actually seemed sincere.

"That bridge… that couldn't be a freak accident. But there's no evidence of bombings or sabotage or anything! I don't know who's fault it is, and it's pissing me off!" He stopped and started taking deep breaths.

I moved to get up. "You okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm fine."

I managed to get back on my feet. "Here. I'll make dinner. Fish and fries sound good?"

He looked up at me. "They're called _chips_."

I grinned. "Okay, Fish and fries it is. I'll call it in."

I called up the local pub and put in an order. We have a deal set up with them for being frequent customers. They'll send someone to us with whatever food and drinks we order. It's not five star, but it's comforting, kinda like childhood.

The day ended pretty much normally. We ate, bantered, read for a while, and went to bed. I'm still wondering about that kid, though. I hope some gang thug didn't shoot him or something for failing to rob an old cripple.

**July 28, 1997 3 AM**

Holy shit! I had to write this down! Cyrus and I woke up an hour ago to a huge crash outside our window. We both stumbled out of bed and grabbed our guns.

I poked my fingers through the blinds and saw a man on the ground beneath our window. I pulled up the blinds to get a better look.

"Oh my God!" I gasped.

The man had scars all over his face and a glass eye whirling around in the socket. His clothes were mismatched and dirty, and his hair was thin and receding. He looked old enough to be my father. His other eye didn't even flutter or close. He looked dead.

"He looks dead," said Cyrus. "I'll check it out." He grabbed a flashlight from his night stand and left the room.

I hobbled closer to the window to get a closer look. He was dead all right. No movement whatsoever. There were no fresh wounds at all. He looked like he fell from the roof, but his body was parallel to the street. If he fell, or was pushed, he'd be perpendicular to the road. Unless someone threw him off sideways… but where else could he come from?

Then, the glass eye stopped rotating and looked at me. I almost shit my pants seeing that. I moved to the other side of the window, but the eye still followed me, just like Mona Lisa. Judging from the face, I'd say he was a veteran, and the clothes made him look homeless. I guess he could've gotten sick of the shitty benefits and killed himself, but again, no wounds or anything. What the hell happened?

As if to make life more confusing, the glass started frosting over. In the middle of summer? I touched the glass. I swear it was ice cold. Then, the ice faded away, and the body was gone.

Cyrus just made it out of the building and looked around. He walked up to the window and knocked on it. "Where'd he go?" said his muffled voice.

I opened the window. "I dunno. All this ice formed on the window and then…" I started to realize how crazy I sounded.

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Look, I'm just telling you what I saw. You saw him too. Could you believe he'd just get up and walk away?" I looked up at the raised pane. "Look! There's condensation on the glass! Where else could it come from?"

He paused trying to think of an argument. "Look, it's the middle of the night. We're both tired and probably seeing things. Let's just get some sleep and forget about it. Move over." I moved aside as he crawled through the window. He closed it and left the room to secure the front door.

I crawled back into bed, but I couldn't sleep. That eye kept chasing me around my head. I figured if I wrote this down, maybe I could get it out of my head and finally sleep. We'll see how that goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 28, 1997 6 PM**

Woke up the same time as usual today. Work was just as normal as usual. No attempted robberies or anything.

I had some dreams about the man with the glass eye. I can't remember them in detail, but I remember his face. I would've thought last night was a dream too if I hadn't written it down and dated it. Something weird's going on.

I checked through all of today's papers on anything that looked like that man, but nothing came up, not even in the tabloids. Maybe he was just some nobody with no friends or family looking for him. I kinda feel sorry for him. Still, who took his body? I didn't hear anyone outside until Cyrus got out there, and the window didn't ice itself. Someone caused it. But who? And why?

Cyrus was still asleep when I went to work. I thought about asking him if he remembered last night. I dunno. Maybe I'm obsessing too much over this. I tend to do that a lot, I think. Maybe this'll go away by tomorrow.

Cyrus just walked in. Seems we're going to the pub this time. And he's talking about getting hammered. I guess his check just came in, otherwise we'd stay here. Still, whenever he wants to go out, it usually means he's trying to forget something. Maybe he remembers the dead man too.

**July 29, 1997 2 AM**

And I thought yesterday was exciting. Cyrus led the whole pub in a medley of sea shanties. He forgot the words to half of them and started making dirty rhymes. It was funny, but I just didn't feel in the mood.

Claire was nice, though. She's one of the waitresses, curly blond hair, pretty, in her mid-twenties, and one of the nicest gals you'd ever meet, to some. For rowdy patrons like Cyrus, she's as strict as a nun with a ruler. I still get flashbacks to my grade school days. Anyway, she sat with me every once in a while to talk, mostly about normal problems. I forgot about the man with the glass eye until she said this:

"Do you ever feel… I dunno… when you're out walking and you just feel… hopeless for no reason at all?"

Suddenly, that glass eye popped into my head. "You're not going by the docks or anything, are you?"

She shook her head, her curls bouncing side to side. "No, not at all. It just happens. One minute, I'm fine. And the next, I feel dreadful." She chuckled. "Sorry. I must sound silly."

I shook my head. "Maybe you were just remembering a nightmare." I sipped my ale, trying not to think back to last night.

"Maybe." She shrugged. "Well, I'm all right now. That's what counts, right?" She smiled.

I nodded. "Yeah." I gotta admit, her smile can really brighten up a room.

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. "Thanks for listening."

"Any time."

Just as she got up, Cyrus swung an arm around her. "Hey! How about a kiss for me?"

She ducked under her arm. "How about you pay your tab?" She whisked away to the counter while the rest of the guys oohed.

Cyrus turned to me and slid into the seat next to me. "So, Your Highness, it seems brooding in a corner, pretending to be a shadow, works wonders on women. Let me try." He hunched over and gave a surly look. Some of the guys laughed.

I smirked. "Say, Butterfinger, if you ever want a pinky, they can graft your dick on it. It's not like you're using it for anything."

The bar roared in laughter.

He grinned, taking it in stride. When the bar died down, he said, "Actually, your dick matches the size much better."

Even more laughter echoed through the room. Even I couldn't help but laugh. He's kind of an idiot, but he's all right.

We left sometime after midnight. I limped slowly home, which was fine for Cyrus since faster steps would've been too much for him. It was dark, but we were feelin' pretty good.

Just as we're reaching our building, we hear a girl scream. Any haze from the booze instantly faded. We dashed down the alley as fast as we could, drawing our guns as we ran. I managed to keep up with Cyrus even with my stiff leg.

We turned the corner and saw some nut in black robes towering over a woman on the ground. He raised some sort of black shape over his head and saying some gibberish. He looked like he was about to stab her.

Cyrus and I drew our guns at the same time and fired. I got him in the spine. Cyrus got him in the head.

The man keeled over as the woman rolled out of the way. We ran over to the scene.

Cyrus knelt by the woman. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, still shaking. "Yes, thank you."

I inspected the body. Cyrus' bullet shattered a mask roughly in the shape of a skull. I looked at his weapon and saw it was a stick. A black, nicely polished stick, but still just a stick.

I bent over and picked it up. "A stick?!"

The woman got up and snatched it out of my hand. "Be careful with that!"

Cyrus got up.

I looked at him. "We killed someone over a fucking stick!"

He looked confused and turned to the woman.

"It's not just a—" She trailed off. "Wait, you're Muggles, aren't you?"

Cyrus and I glanced at each other. This chick was crazy. Who makes up words like that?

She turned pale. "Oh no." She backed away from us. "You have to get out of here." She dropped the stick as she stumbled. Her eyes started closing.

Cyrus caught her. "Fainted." He swept her legs up to carry her in his arms. He started walking back to the building.

I picked up the stick. "Where are you taking her?"

He continued on without answering me.

I sighed and hobbled after him. I mean sure, she was attacked by some nut with a stick, but I sure as hell wouldn't take her into my house.

Sure enough, he took her inside and laid her on the couch. He checked her pulse and such.

I sighed and hobbled into my room to write all of this down. Maybe he's a weird cultist or something. Still, I'm thinking we should lock the door to our room tonight, just in case she's just as crazy too.

**July 29, 1997 10 PM**

Today I guess was just as normal as ever, but I feel like I forgot something. When I got up, I felt as though there was something supposed to be on the couch. I figured Cyrus left the remote there last night, but it was right on the coffee table.

Now that I think about it, something strange happened as I was coming back from the stand. I ended up taking a detour around our building and going to this dead ended alley. I just looked at it, trying to figure out what was missing. I'm not even sure why. Maybe I'm just tired. I should get to sleep earlier from now on.

**July 30, 1997 10 PM**

I went back to the alley. It still looks just as normal as ever. That's what bothers me. It looks… too clean. It's like, there's something obvious missing, but I can't think of what. I'm tempted to ask Cyrus about it, but he'd probably think I'm crazy. With that and the nightmares I've been having about an eye following me, I'd probably agree.

**July 31, 1997 6 PM**

I went to the alley again. This time, Cyrus was there. He was looking around.

He looked up at me. "Ho there! Dumpster hopping?"

I walked up to him. "Same as you, I'd guess."

He hesitated. "Look, I'm not crazy. I just…"

"Feel like you forgot something?"

He nodded.

"Strange dreams too?"

"Yeah. About some woman and a ghost."

"Oh." It wasn't the same as mine.

He noticed the tone. "What are yours about?"

"A giant eye-ball that's always looking at me no matter where I run."

He burst out laughing. I wanted to smack him.

"Sorry," he said after he caught his breath. "I shouldn't be laughing."

"Getting back to the problem, we're having weird dreams and keep coming to this alley. What else do we know?"

His grin faded. "I know I fired my gun. I checked it last night. There's a bullet missing from the mag."

I pulled out my own from my holster and popped the magazine out. There were eight bullets. One more was in the chamber. So nine. I was supposed to have ten.

"Shit," I muttered. "Me too."

"Okay, so we have bad dreams, we shot something, and we keep coming back to this alley. Now what?"

Then, it hit me. "My journal! Maybe I wrote something!"

He looked at me. "Your what?"

I rolled my eyes. "I keep a journal. Okay, I started keeping a journal. I heard it was therapeutic or something."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Look, let's check the bloody thing!"

He shrugged.

We hurried back to the apartment. I fished out my journal and flipped back a few pages. I skimmed through until I saw the entry July 28, 3 AM. "Some guy died from a fall right in front of our window with a glass eye. That explains my dream." I flipped some more. "Here! July 29, 2 AM. We got drunk, then—"

"I don't get drunk. I only get a gentle buzz."

I looked up at him and glared.

He held up his hands. "Sorry, Mate. Continue."

I sighed and went back to the entry. "We heard a scream, saw a guy in a cloak attacking some woman with a weapon, shot him, and found the weapon was… a polished stick?" I looked up at him. "We killed a guy over a stick?"

"It looks like we didn't know until after the fact. You can't fault us for trying to help. Even with a stick, he might've hurt her."

"Maybe we should've let him. She spoke some gibberish, fainted, _you_ took her home and set her up on the couch." I paused. "I suggested locking our door in case she was crazy."

"Then why can't we remember any of this?"

"She isn't mentioned at all after this." I looked up at him. "Maybe she drugged us while she was asleep."

"How? We looked the door. How could she break in without us noticing?"

"Assuming we even locked the door at all."

We both stood in silence.

"What now?" he finally asked.

"What can we do? We can't go to the police for shooting someone whose body disappeared or some woman we took in who drugged us." I thought. "Maybe we should move. She knows where we live. She could try and break in again."

"She could've done that yesterday or the day before, too. If she wanted to kill us, she would've done it that night."

"I guess there's nothing we can do 'cept forget and move on."

He looked out the window. "Can you?"

"Prolly not. You?"

"No. I want to find her and figure out what's going on. I have some friends that might help track her down."

"Look, I don't think this is something we wanna get involved in."

Cyrus grinned. "Hey, at least it's interesting." He headed for the door. "I'm gonna make an appointment with a sketch artist to capture the essence of the woman in my dreams."

I rolled my eyes and sat down at the couch as he left. I'd hate to admit it, but he's right. This _is_ interesting.


End file.
